When life pelts at you with lemons, shot tequila and start stitching your wounds.

I thought I had my life all figured out after marrying The Smiling Assassin*. I had plans to pause the rewarding career I created for myself to create another rewarding experience, a family.

It was all smoke and mirrors. He said he’ll support me through the good and the bad, only if he could reap the benefits to fuel his narcissistic supply and inflate his ego to his friends about his trophy wife, but imprinted how worthless I am at any signs of imperfection. He said he loved me for who I am, but at every chance criticised every aspect of me to break and mould me into his “dolly”. He said he’ll protect me, but attacked my independence so I no longer saw my family or friends and I became co-dependent on him. 

The universe got fed up and decides to start pelting at me with lemons. I am forever grateful.

A year and a half later, at age 31, I am a divorcee only after being married for just 11 months.

I am exhausted from treading through a constant blizzard, just to put on a face and screaming to the world with my resting bitch face, “I am ok! Please leave me alone!” followed with, “...but not completely alone” sheepishly.

I am covered with bruises from thinking I could divert mental anguish to physical pain with food, exercise, tattooing and piercings hoping the pain would just go away. But no, so there were epochs where both mental and physical anguish were like two peas in a pod which has now become chronic fatigue syndrome. To my two unborns, the pain still resides.

I am at a loss to who I am - I was once a strong, confident and independent woman. I now suffer from imposter syndrome, I self-sabotage and feel utterly worthless as a human being all because of one man, a bully, who felt insecure and needed to abuse me to make him feel better about himself. I empathise with you Echo, Narcissus didn’t deserve you.

But here I am - I survived, I have fallen apart but not into pieces.

I still feel as if I have been stuck in a one-way tunnel trying to dig my way out. Over my shoulder, I can see the jagged trail of footprints that lead me to this point in my life. In front of me is a wall, a wall I still have to dig through to get out somehow but I feel somewhat hopeful.

I look down at my feet and see how torn my shoes are from wearing them in for the past 7 years, but I am distracted at the amount of baggage I have to carry. Why did I let myself endure all this? 

A pang of sadness tries to creep in, not this time.